January 23, 2024


Cynthia Cruz

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This article appears in the January 2024 issue.

The weather in this room is eel-black,

a gel-like ointment.

It is a cream-like substance

the exact texture of death.

It lives, like a dream, inside the body.

I have tried but I cannot

get it out.

I am showing you the history of life

through a series of unrelated gestures.

You can talk to the dead just like you talk to the living.

There is a blonde field and dark river

that seams along the edge of its forest.

A fracturing, television-like static.

Glitter and beads, animal, mineral.

Memory as a form of matter.

I have an accident every five years

and one year it won’t be accident.

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Cynthia Cruz